It’s tougher and tougher to write anything these days. The passion for writing was to bring honesty to paper (or the web). Things that couldn’t be said or bottled up were laid bare on the web for everyone to see.
Growing up, you compromise with your blunt feelings. That’s what growing up is, in a world driven by capitalistic courtesy and niceness. It’s hard being upfront and honest, that’ll make you lose your job or relationships in a jiffy.
I find myself too engrossed and comfortable with the facade of being ‘pleasant’ that it has become uncomfortable to put out honest words for everyone to see. It was easier writing about a broken relationship or a budding romance in past. Now I feel constrained by my own judgements, about age and maturity. I find myself deleting words after words, drafts after drafts, saying “You’re 27, this doesn’t suit you”, “You’re a lawyer, what are you even writing?”
It’s wrong. The part of me that’s still holding on to the impulse and euphoria of writing things and etching them forever on the world wide web knows it’s wrong to suffocate the inner child. That’s why today it has taken command, today the child writes.
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